And There Was That Time I Helped You Get a Date
by crackers4jenn
Summary: The Office. Every good man needs an equally good wing-man.


A/N: Written with my good buddy dollsome in mind, because she is awesome. As awesome as Andy, actually. Or maybe awesom_er_? Think on that one, folks.

Forty minutes before Oscar plans on a lunch break, Andy rolls his way towards the triangular bulk of desks where the accountants are gathered. In his chair. Angela notices him mid-way through this trek on wheels and is immediately overcome with annoyance, glancing upwards like maybe someone up there will commiserate with her. She sighs and, once Andy is close enough, levels him with a harsh, unwavering stare, one that would wilt a lesser man.

"Hello, sweetums," Andy greets with a smile.

"_Nuh-unh_," she says, like it's all that needs to be said.

"Uh, no offense, Mrs-to-be, but this is a conversation to be had _man-o e man-o_."

Which is when Oscar realizes that Andy's swung his chair around so that it lines up with his. When he gives Andy his full attention, Andy's eyebrows jump to his hairline. Several times. Like someone is pulling a string, drawing them upwards.

"So, _bro_," Andy says. Oscar wonders why everyone here talks in italics. "You get _laid_ yet?"

Angela makes a disgusted noise, which Andy is oblivious to and Oscar is, well. Used to.

If it was, say, Kevin who had asked him that, he probably would've sighed and ignored the follow-up giggle and continued on with his work, only silently plotting the act of quitting this unbelievably horrible job. But Andy, Oscar can tell, is sincere, on some level, which makes it hard to get offended by him.

"I'll take your silence as a resounding _NO_. C'mon!" Andy yells, wide-eyed and outraged on Oscar's behalf. Then he decides something. "You know what you need? _Chaps_. _Hel_met. Horseback riding lessons. Because! You need to jump back on the horse! As a matter of fact, I," he says, self-importantly, "know a little sumfin-sumfin about horseback riding. You'd never know it by gazing into these mysterious baby browns, but you're looking at the eyes of a bronze ribbon _winnah!_ Third place. Beat out two other people. How 'bout that? Andy Bernard, taking home some _gold_."

Angela looks up in exasperation. "You said bronze."

"Uh, _yeah._"

She rolls her eyes. "_Bronze_ isn't _gold_." They also don't make bronze ribbons, but apparently that is a fact meant to be neglected.

Andy half-bows, a move that seems entirely unnecessary and physically impossible given their seating arrangement. He looks like he's struggling between defending his honor and sucking up to Angela. It's no surprise that the latter wins out. "You," Andy breathes, "are absolutely correct. Thank you."

Before Andy's even finished, Angela has picked up the phone and dialed a number. Andy seems not to notice. The phone call lasts three seconds, in which she utters a single, solitary word--"Now."--before pushing back in her chair.

"You're welcome," she tells Andy before hurriedly walking away.

Andy leans back in his chair to watch her go, saying, "You complete me," to her departing form. It's acknowledged with a backwards glare, and Oscar watches this play out with a rapt, almost disgusting sense of interest. How is it possible they are engaged? How?

"So," Andy says, his focus once again on Oscar. Entirely. "Whatdy'a say? You up for a little lesson in what I like to call, _bro_mance?"

For the first time, Kevin jumps into the conversation. He's nodding enthusiastically, which means he is barely nodding. But for Kevin, that's big. "_Nice_," he compliments.

Oscar pushes back in his chair, settling against the curve. He scratches at his temple. How does one put 'thank you, but the idea, outside of Canada it seems, is highly, highly unlikely' into words that are, let's say, more subtle than that?

An attempt. "It's just. I think maybe--"

Andy silences him with a held up hand. "Say no more, mon frere. You. Me. Poor Richards. A legion of supple young men, ripe for the plucking. Beers. Wings. Wing-_man._ _Tonight_." He starts rolling towards his desk again, and Oscar swivels to watch him go, mostly bewildered that somehow Andy seems to think they reached some sort of agreement in that collapse of a conversation.

"Oh, man," Kevin says, and from his slack expression, Oscar can tell Kevin shares that same feeling of bafflement. "What just _happened_? You and _Andy_ are going out on a _date_. That is going to cause some serious _problems._"

Oscar is torn between horror and amusement. Mostly horror. "That's completely ludicrous, Kevin."

"Is it? Is it really, Oscar?"

He really has to explain? Alright, but only because he doesn't want Kevin starting up any office rumors. That would not be productive to what he is trying to obtain as a new 'positive life outlook'.

"Yes, Kevin. For one, Andy is engaged to Angela."

"So? Angela is _mean._"

Oscar concedes this point by not arguing against it. "It would never happen, not in a million years." That doesn't seem enough, so he tacks on, "A million and one."

Kevin just starts slowly shaking his head, the ultimate sign of admonishing. Then he's staring over Oscar's shoulder, suddenly smiling, and immediately Oscar lets loose a deep, internal sigh. The cameras. Perfect. He turns around to defend himself and explain how that conversation sort of snowballed into something completely unexpected and out of Oscar's hands when he realizes that the camera crew has already started towards Andy, who is talking rather animatedly about what Oscar overhears is his evening plans for the night.

Then Kevin starts to giggle.

***

"I am not going out on a date with Andy Bernard," he says into the camera. The thing is, he can practically hear the snickering. "It's not a date."

***

The clock on Oscar's computer reads 4:56, which means it's only a matter of minutes before he closes it down and heads for home. That's what's on his mind, until Andy appears at his side. He's got his hands in his pockets, and he's rocking back and forth on his heels. There is that perennial smile on his face. Almost like they are sharing a secret, Andy says, "T-minus a crapload of seconds. Nervous?"

Oscar sighs. "Why would I be nervous?"

It's been a very long day. He had to have the same form overlooked four different times, because Michael, thinking he was being funny, kept signing in areas where the signature was not required. It was _not_ funny. It was childish and time-consuming. There had been a particularly nasty phone call he'd had with Gil that he'd saved for outside when he was on his break, and not even the wide, open freedom of the parking lot could keep him from feeling claustrophobic. Plus, it left him with only 10 minutes to eat. Not exactly ideal when one has a full plate of left-over lasagna to consume.

"Uh, _duh_," Andy says.

Kevin inserts helpfully, "Are you ready for your _date_, Oscar?"

That, Oscar suddenly remembers, is not happening.

Andy leans in close and says, "Turns out, I happen to know that Poor Richards is going to be _packed_ with fresh man meat. And I, Andrew Bernard, will be what I want you to think of as your personal butcher for the duration of the evening. Just consider me the Sam to your Alice."

Oscar can only stare. "What does that even mean?" It's got to be asked.

Andy actually looks clueless. "I don't know," he admits with a breathy laugh, like maybe even he realizes the ridiculousness. "Brady Brunch reference. _Butchered_ Brady Bunch reference. Get it?"

"I do," Kevin nods.

Just then, Angela returns from the break room. "What are you doing here?" Seeing Andy makes her flustered. "I already told you, you can't come over. Little Miss Fancy has been acting up lately, _probably_ because she senses a change in the air. She's been a constant source of chaos in the house these past few days."

"And what Little Miss Fancy needs is some alone time with Mommy," Andy agrees easily. "May I suggest, darlingest, adhering a piece of string to a piece of tape and sticking it on her tail?"

Angela considers this. "She does enjoy the simplicity."

Pleased with what passes as permission granted, Andy announces that the 'Nard Mobile will be making its exit in approximately six minutes, and just like that, Oscar feels himself getting trapped.

***

Poor Richards is exactly how Oscar feared it would be: sparsely filled, and filled poorly with men who are likely there to escape their wife or girlfriend's nagging, most of them already half-drunk.

"Check it _out_," Andy says, in a voice that implies they are staring at two different scenarios. In Andy's scenario, obviously he is seeing something far more appealing, like the men from one of those NYPD calendars or something. This is not that. This is so far away from being that, it's terrifying.

Andy clamps a hand down on Oscar's shoulder, smiling a little crazily. Oscar almost wants to sound off the alarms and take a rain check, but the last time he did something after work that did not involve an apron and a Martha Stewart cookbook he was in Canada, with Andy, and that was weeks ago. Besides, the idea of his empty house with its lights all turned off and cold, formal furniture doesn't exactly sound comforting right now.

He lets himself get dragged up to the bar, where he sinks onto a bar stool, limp and accepting of his lifestyle that now evidently includes Andy attempting to get him dates.

Andy orders them both a Bloody Mary this time--turns out it's obligatory to switch the drinks up when the last attempt at, I don't know, what would one call this? A male escort service? That failed last time, and as such a new drink is necessary in order to not fail again. Or whatever. Oscar had already chugged most of the drink down while Andy was still in the process of explaining. And that is something else, too. Oscar is not a drinker. He is not a chugger. If he drank, he drank wine, and unless you planned on looking uncivilized, you don't chug wine. Now he is a chugger.

"Crank up the man-meter, 'cause I'm about to blow your mind a little," Andy says, low voiced. He's scoping the place out. Oscar follows Andy's scrutinizing gaze as it leaps from male to male and, for real, he could crawl under the bar and wallow in his own misery, it's that bad. Then suddenly Andy makes a beeping noise, like a metal detector picking up a penny. "Hot male-dude alert," he mutters out of the side of his mouth. "Eleven o'clock. Wait no. Eleven oh-seven. Dead ahead."

Oscar rolls his eyes and turns towards the received coordinates. Thinning brown hair. A whisper of a beard. And, alright, so the man is not entirely bad-looking, but given Oscar's luck, he's probably straight.

When Oscar doesn't immediately leap up and sexually assault this picked out stranger, Andy stares at him with some sort of weird eye twitch before grabbing his drink. He raises it high as he glides off of the bar stool and heads for the man, who is sitting at a booth by himself. That's when Oscar recognizes the eye twitch for what it was: a wink with nothing but unpleasant ulterior motives.

Instantly he is up and off of the bar stool, trailing hopelessly after Andy. There are attempts to redirect him. _Andy! I'm not talking to him. I am not doing this, I swear to... I'm going back to the bar. You're going to look like a complete fool when you approach him by yourself. Andy!_ They are ignored, but he keeps whispering those threats at the back of Andy's head right up until the second Andy slides into the booth, upon which the scowl leaves Oscar's face, replaced with a quick reassuring _I promise you this will be over soon_ smile to greet this man who, for all Oscar knows, is homophobic and could possibly be violently psycho.

The guy perks an eyebrow at Andy, who has made himself comfortable in a booth he has no right being in. There was no invite. You don't just sit down in someone else's booth unless there is a specific invitation to do so.

"So," Andy says, and he rests his arm atop the seat. Horrified, Oscar sits down next to him. It happens very quick. Literally, it was a split second decision, he had little to no say in what his body chose. He can sense the man now staring at him, but he is watching Andy, like maybe he is as unwilling in all of this as this poor stranger. Andy says, "That is one scrumptious looking hamburger."

The man leans back himself. "It's alright." The tone is patronizing. Amused.

"Little known fact: my good buddy Oscar here? Totally an avid hamburger fan."

Once again he feels the full brunt of the stranger's stare on him. It would be too humiliating to make eye contact, so instead he stares in fascinated horror at Andy.

"Know what else he's good at?" Andy wonders of this man. "Havin' rock-solid abs."

Despite himself, Oscar finds himself blurting out, "That's not true." It shouldn't sound as pathetic as it does--he could make it seem ironic, like he's just as weirded out and, oh, what drunk people will say and do!--but instead it's borderline depressing the way he almost scrambles to insult himself.

"Pffft. _Whaaaat_? Your abs could _totally_ bench press my abs."

Oscar has no idea why Andy is saying that. Just a couple weeks ago he was telling Oscar that he has, essentially, what boils down to an unattractive stomach. Now suddenly he has rock-solid abs?

"That," he hurries to say, "is also not true." This time, though, he makes direct eye contact with this poor, poor person Andy has chosen out of a massive crowd of, well, eight or nine other patrons, and what he sees isn't pity or a sociopathic glare, but there is actually something other than horror there, and for that he is almost grateful.

It only takes ten minutes--most of which are ridiculously spent with Andy waxing poetic about these abs Oscar doesn't, nor did he ever, have--before Andy casually excuses himself to use the 'little men's room'. And by 'casual', he abruptly stood up, hauled himself across Oscar's lap to exit the booth even as Oscar tried to stand up to grant him access, and then left Oscar to his own devices with a few more weird eye twitches that were actually easier to translate this time as not-so-subtle winks.

And it turns out, Oscar is a lot more intrepid than he thought himself to be.

***

Oscar gets Patrick's number--that's his name, _Patrick_--and almost has to stop himself from skipping back to the bar where Andy is waiting, slinging back pretzels and belligerently watching CNN coverage. Apparently he has ill feelings for Anderson Cooper.

Once they're both buckled up and heading for the Dunder Mifflin parking lot, where there rests Oscar's car, Andy can't contain himself any longer.

"Dude!" he says, and it's a little scary how appropriate that one word seems right now.

"I know!"

"You totally--"

"It was unbelievable!"

"Did he--?"

"Programmed it in my cell himself."

Andy is now actively _not_ watching the road. Instead he's grinning madly at Oscar. Normally this would be about the time one would helpfully insist that the driver drive with both eyes forward, preferably, but Oscar can't find it in himself to relinquish even a little bit of the happiness currently floating weightlessly through him. Plus, there are no other cars on the road, so in the case of an automobile accident, if worse comes to worse they are slamming into an embankment of grass.

Oscar can't help but laugh. "I can't believe that actually worked."

"Uh, hello. Wing-man at your service. Didn't I tell you, like, very specifically, that I would show you the way?"

"You did."

Andy holds up a fist. "Show me some knuckles. C'mon. Right now."

Normally Oscar would refuse. Not impolitely, not even harshly, just impassively decide not to degrade himself with schoolboy antics. To hell with that, though. He bumps fists with Andy, probably a little sloppily because he's hyped up on pretty much three rounds of alcohol right now, but who cares?

"You know who's awesome?" Andy ponders out loud. "_Andrew Bernard_. Could it be that he is the most awesome person ever?"

"You are very awesome," Oscar can't help but readily agree. The man got him another man's phone number, for crying out loud. If that doesn't say 'awesome' in letters that are not consecutively 'a-w-e-s-o-m-e', then there is literally nothing else in this world that could.

Oscar is so pleased with the unfolding of the night's events, he doesn't even care when Andy turns up the radio and starts singing along to whatever horrible pop song is playing.

Things are that good.


End file.
